


everything gets blurry (am i right where you want me)

by adazzledim



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: "accidental", Academy Era, Accidental Cuddling, Drunkenness, F/M, Sharing a Bed, Spooning, author needs a hug, i have been WRITING THIS since FEBRUARY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 22:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adazzledim/pseuds/adazzledim
Summary: “Y’know what makes me really sad?” Fitz says after a silent moment. Jemma hums in a noncommittal sort of way. “I’ve never slept with anyone.”





	everything gets blurry (am i right where you want me)

**Author's Note:**

> not based on true events in any way WHATsoever. title from 'ice cream' by the wombats

Something interesting about this iteration of drunk-Fitz that Jemma hasn’t noticed in previous versions: he gets very tactile. Not in an unpleasant handsy way, Christ, no. More like… a tiny baby puppy at the developmental stage at which they appear no more than 30% in control of their bodies at best, and consequently just flop all over the other puppies as though they aren’t there. Except instead of a handful of wriggling fur it’s a rather more considerable amount of warm ungainly teenaged human sprawled all over her lap, talking with sleepy enthusiasm about the importance of Nine’s non-RP accent while hugging Jemma’s shin. It’s – well, it’s quite endearing, really. Not that Fitz needs to endear himself to her any more than he already has.

(She may have started playing with his hair at some point. Honestly, nothing she does can be held against her, she’s had  _ far  _ more to drink than she should have and it feels like the whole world is being very gently stirred and she needs something to hold onto and he was already  _ right there  _ and –)

And the whole thing’s just really, really  _ nice _ , Jemma thinks to herself fuzzily. Yes, the two of them are now entering the third year of the closest friendship she’s ever had with anyone, but they’ve never been particularly – physical, if that’s the right word for it, for whatever reason. Scared of inviting suggestive comments from the older cadets, in her case, and if she’s any judge of Fitz’s character (which she absolutely is) she’d say he’s probably got some silly fear of taking advantage of her or something. So no, they’ve always kept within the boundaries they’ve set themselves, with occasional exceptions for silly unavoidable things like falling asleep on each other in the library during midterms, and gotten used to things being that way.

Which makes her just a bit sad, if she’s honest. In her (admittedly still limited) experience with the effects of alcohol, Jemma’s generally a cheerful drunk, but everyone has their moments, she supposes, and apparently this is hers. She never really had any close female friends, growing up, but she knows that casual physical intimacy is characteristic of such relationships, and she sort of missed out on that. Masculinity being what it is, she knows it’s more than likely that Fitz is in the same boat.  _ Touch-starved  _ seems too strong a word, but accurate in several respects, she has to admit. 

It’s a bit of a problem, and what do she and Fitz do with problems? They solve them.  _ Together.  _ Because they’re child geniuses (geni?) who are actually just regular geniuses now and their relationship is great like that.

Vodka tastes frankly terrible but it does work, so to speak, very fast, doesn’t it?

“It  _ does, _ ” Fitz says, and Jemma suddenly realises that she has no idea how much of her internal monologue was… not very internal. Her fingers still in his hair, and he bats at her arm – it takes several tries to actually hit it – until she resumes.

“Y’know what makes me really sad?” he says after a silent moment. Jemma hums in a noncommittal sort of way. “I’ve never slept with anyone.”

Her eyes widen, and she can physically  _ feel  _ herself going bright red at that, even through the weird fuzzy numbness blanketing the lower half of her face. She’s suddenly very glad that this is a conversation they’re having now, in her otherwise empty dorm, and not half an hour ago in the common area in front of God, Sally Weber and everyone. Fitz takes a second to hear the words that just came out of his mouth, and then he’s flushing crimson too. “No!” he says hurriedly, “I mean – I don’t – that is, not in a, a. Sex way."

“All… right,” Jemma says after a pause. The pause seems very necessary. So necessary, in fact, that maybe it could just keep going and they could – not talk about – this – ever again –

“Well, that too,” Fitz says in a contemplative sort of way, not appearing to realise that he's spoken out loud this time, which is… awkward, but Jemma supposes it would be awkwarder if he  _ did  _ realise, so she just lets it slide. “I just mean – in a being next to someone sort’f way. Seems like it’d be… nice.”

And that vodka must have had even more of an effect on Jemma than she initially thought, because not only does she wholeheartedly  _ agree  _ with Fitz for once, without so much as a second thought she’s suddenly saying so. “Hmm. I suppose you’ve got a point,” she admits. She’s still absentmindedly carding her fingers through his curls. “There must be – I think there’s research been done about close physical contact and cortisol levels, not to  _ mention  _ oxytocin, and even immune response, um, responds positively in some cases.” There. Now it sounds like Jemma’s got actually reasonable reasons for thinking Fitz is right,  _ and  _ she managed to say all the words right even though her mouth still feels like it’s existing in several other dimensions at once.

“Yeah,” Fitz mumbles plaintively, “and also, it’s  _ warm  _ when someone hugs you.”

“I thought Scots were coldproof?” Jemma says after a while, for lack of anything actually sensical to reply with. He doesn’t deign to respond to this, which offends her for about as long as it takes her to realise he’s kind of fallen asleep in her lap.

“Fitz,” she whispers, poking his shoulder and actually hitting it on the third go, she’s  _ so  _ coordinated, “Fitz, wake up.” Wait, why is she whispering? “Fitz, you can’t fall asleep here, we’re on the floor. We’re in my room and we’re on the floor.”

Nothing.

“Fitz, you’ve got to go back to your room.”

Still nothing.

“ _ Fitz  _ my RA is really nice to me because she thinks I'm a baby and if she finds out there’s a boy sleeping in my room I can’t make any guarantees against mystery disappearances.”

Fitz’s eyes finally crack open enough to glare at Jemma (well, glare is pushing it, it’s more of a very threatening squint). “Please don’t make me walk anywhere. I think ‘ve forgotten how,” he begs, then switches out the glare for a very wonky version of the pleading puppy-dog face he usually employs when suggesting they take a study break to go get ice cream or something. Really, what’s most adorable is that he thinks it’s going to work on her.

… They very rarely don’t get ice cream.

“Fine,” Jemma says, then adds, in a flush of something close to courage she’ll later blame on the alcohol, “but you’re not sleeping on the floor, we can share. The bed, I mean.”

Fitz’s eyes bug out a little at that, but, to his eternal credit, instead of saying anything he just makes a noise of satisfaction and sits up properly. Jemma absolutely does  _ not  _ instantly miss the warm weight of his head in her lap, because that would be silly. “Hm,” he says, flinging a hand out, “gimme a sec, s’all spinning – no, don’t worry, Simmons, ‘m not going to be  _ sick _ ,” when her alarm must show on her face. She wouldn’t know. She still mostly can’t feel it. Has she mentioned that? “You sure you’re okay with sl– erm, with sharing the bed?” he frowns, after a moment.

Dear  _ boy _ . Jemma smiles and reaches out to pat his face, a little unsteadily. “Why else would I suggest it?” she says.

They decide unanimously that they’ll just sleep in their clothes, because there have to be  _ some  _ boundaries, Jemma tells herself, and also because theoretically she can deal with the buttons on her shirt but she’s not keen on finding out the practical applications of that theory right now. So they both kick their shoes off in the general direction of the door and Jemma makes sure there’s a bottle of water beside the bed for the morning (yes, Fitz, of course I’m thinking about that now, I’m only drunk, not entirely irresponsible), and then all of a sudden it’s the bit where they both have to get in the bed.

Thankfully, SHIELD appears to have been as absurdly matter-of-fact practical as they are in everything else about the realities of putting a lot of clever, attractive people in their early twenties (well, mostly) in close contact with each other all the time, so while the standard issue bed isn’t designed for two people as such, they certainly won’t be packed in like sardines and probably nobody’s going to fall off in the night. Jemma collapses gently onto the bed before she can psych herself out with all the implications of that, and sort of wiggles over until there’s room for Fitz to join her. And then even though she should be worrying about – something, she isn’t sure what, she’s actually so tired and so ready for the ceiling to stop doing the spinny thing that she’s asleep before she can do any more than idly wonder if Fitz knows how warm he is all the time.

The first thing Jemma realises when she wakes up is that she must have forgotten to close her curtains last night, because morning sunlight is pouring in through the window and she wouldn’t call what she has a  _ hangover  _ exactly but she’d much rather it was still dark. The second – and it takes a moment to remember why, exactly, this is the case – is that she has an armful of Fitz in bed with her.

At some point during the night, he’s evidently rolled over to face away from her, and she’s now tucked up against his back, her knees behind his, her face in the back of his neck. He’s breathing slowly and evenly, still completely asleep. Their feet are tangled together. Jemma doesn’t think she’s been this relaxed in – ever. There’s no word in the English language for how good this is, she thinks, how  _ right  _ it feels, for the solid steady weight of him here next to her, the warmth against her front that seems to have seeped into her very bones. 

And she could – she  _ could  _ get up right now, she could gently extract herself without waking up Fitz and go change and brush her teeth and find some breakfast and all manner of sensible things. But she hasn’t forgotten what she was thinking about last night, and, well, this is her and Fitz solving the problem. Who knows when this kind of opportunity is going to come around again?

So Jemma just tucks herself a little closer, smiling to herself when Fitz shifts a little and mumbles indistinctly, and lets herself drift back towards sleep. There’s probably going to be more than a bit of awkwardness once they’re both awake, but that’s something to worry about when they come to it. For now, she’s right where she wants to be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ok i lied. i wrote this bc i too have been nineteen, absolutely hammered, and mildly horny and i feel like that's an experience fs deserve


End file.
